la petite mort
by arborescent
Summary: They've met like this, face to face on a rooftop, every night for the past five years.


**la petite mort/a little death**

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 **Summary** : They've met like this, face to face on a rooftop, every night for the past five years. Detective and thief are content to but gaze upon each other, unabashedly drinking in every curve, every angle of the other man. Thirsty eyes trail upwards until their gazes lock, and Shinichi doesn't need a mirror to know that the burning hunger he sees in KID's eyes is reflected in his own.

 **Rating** : T

 **Warnings** : Double meanings ;)

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The moon hangs low, heavy and full in a sky glowing from starlight and searchlight alike. The wind weaves, humid and chilled, between detective and thief, pausing to whisper the song of a sleepless city before rushing away. The oil-slicked ocean seethes down below, slashing at the rocks and spitting at the hotel in which Kaitou KID has once again pulled off a successful heist. It's another night, another heist, except Conan is gone and Shinichi is back.

They face down now, on the roof of the sea-battered building, in a practiced game of cat and mouse, although who's risen to play cat and who's deigned to be mouse is anyone's guess.

The gentleman thief's yet to procure tonight's mark from one of his many pockets, so the great detective stays his tranquilizer darts for the time being. Instead, the rivals are content to but gaze upon each other, unabashedly drinking in every curve, every angle of the other man. Thirsty eyes trail upwards until their gazes lock, and Shinichi doesn't need a mirror to know that the burning hunger he sees in KID's eyes is reflected in his own. Shinichi shudders. For the first time since he's recovered his adult body, his lower abdomen grows warmer, the crotch of his trousers tighter, and it is this physical response that finally flips a switch in Shinichi's love-dense brain. Oh. He _wants_ KID.

He takes an involuntary step forward, and KID takes a voluntary step back. The smirk curving KID's lips says that yes, he too has wants and needs, but he has not forgotten his role as criminal, and Shinichi should not forget his own role either. The show must go on.

The thief snaps his fingers. A puff of smoke later and the prize of the night is cradled one white gloved hand, and Shinichi's lust is drowned in a rush of adrenaline. The game has begun.

In an instant his wristwatch is up, the false face standing erect and Shinichi's fingers wrapped around the bezel. He prepares to shoot as KID raises the gem for the moon to see, but a roving searchlight blinds Shinichi and by the time it passes, KID has brought the diamond back down to his chest.

Shinichi can't help but notice that the blue diamond, the Gentian Aegis, is more alizarin than anything.

KID opens his mouth, perhaps to say the same thing, but no words fall from his lips. Only viscous, crimson globules of blood that twinkle with the city lights and burst into a million red stars as they splatter across the roof. The phantom thief stares at the burgundy stain blooming across his chest, at his life pooling on the cement, then fixes his violet gaze on Shinichi. His bloodied mouth snaps to a close as a frenzy of emotions flash in his clouding eyes, none of them decipherable, none of them even close to the hunger from moments before. Then his mouth opens again, and this time sound burbles out alongside a fresh flow of blood. Still, there are no words to be heard, only a reverberating wail that tears through Shinichi's eardrums and sends ice shooting through his veins.

Then a gunshot rings out in harmony with KID's inhuman scream, another surge of blood bursts from his lips, another stumbled step backwards rocks KID's body over the ledge of the roof. Shinichi lunges forward in an attempt to save the thief— as if he wasn't past saving— but desparate fingertips only graze silk as KID falls. As the once-white figure plummets away from Shinichi's shocked grasp, the wailing only grows louder, painfully reminiscent of an... alarm clock.

And for the past five years, this is how Assistant Inspector Shinichi Kudo of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department wakes up in the morning, sheathed in cold sweat and sticky pajamas, one hand silencing the trilling clock and another clutching his head.

Soon he'll peel back the covers, those too slightly damp with sweat, swing his legs over the right edge of his bed, and stand, wavering for a moment before heading to the bathroom. He'll throw yet another pair of pajamas into the hamper before stepping under the unrelenting spray of his shower. His hands will set to work, rubbing out the remnants of his dream as rising steam blurs his vision and scalding water stings his hunched back. He'll towel off, shaking out his hair before tying the towel around bony hips.

As he brushes his teeth in front of the sink, he'll notice in the mirror that the circles under his eyes have darkened yet another shade. (If he bothered to weigh himself on the dusty scale in the corner, he'd also notice that he's shed yet another half kilo.) Depending on his mood, he might run a comb through his still-damp hair, once, twice, three times in a halfhearted attempt to tame his cowlick, but he'll always head back to his room and rifle through his closet for a pressed white shirt, gunmetal blue suit, and a thin tie in a suitably neutral color.

He'll sit down, once again, on the right edge of his bed, pull on a pair of patternless dress socks, and walk out into the living area of his single-bedroom apartment, furnished with barely more than a sofa, a table, and boxes upon boxes of case files and miscallaneous books. From the top of one such box he'll grab his worn leather messenger bag, from inside another he may grab a folder or few, then he'll head out the front door, pausing only to slip on a pair of patent leather loafers. The door will close and lock with a click and a turn of a key, and Shinichi Kudo will be on his way to the scene of another homicide, another suicide, another violent crime in a design to numb his aching heart and glut his analytical mind.

For now, however, at least for a few more minutes, he'll stay in bed, hands shaking, heart racing, as he'll tell himself over and over again, "Calm down. It's been years. _Years._ Kaitou Kid... is dead."

fin/end

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AN: A short old thing I found. Originally wrote this as a beginning to a totally different fic, which was supposed to be flirty and comedic and cute, but the tone was all wrong so I scrapped and rewrote it. Maybe someday that fic will see the light of day (after I update my other fics, haha.)


End file.
